


Kua Fu

by Sherlockxxxx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, Drug Use, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, No Smut, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, basically a lot of angst, but it's a relatively happy ending, john is in pain after sherlock jumps, rated m for drug use and depression and alcohol abuse, there's very little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockxxxx/pseuds/Sherlockxxxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about John trying to move on (and failing quite miserably at it for the most part). </p><p>Originally, this story had a <b>very</b> different ending but I couldn't leave it that way. I might do an alternative ending because this just kind of got away from me, honestly, and I really liked the my first plan but...yeah. </p><p>Also, if you guys actually like this story, I might rewrite the entire thing from Sherlock's POV :) So let me know?</p><p>My <a href="http://longlive-johnlock.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> home! Follow me, ask me stuff, talk to me! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kua Fu

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers:  
> -Alcohol abuse  
> -Drug abuse & overdose  
> -Depression/Suicidal tendencies.  
> -PTSD

_Breathe.  
  
That’s it, John. Breathe. You can do this. It’s just a slab of concrete. Concrete engraved with words that hardly sum up a person’s life. Adjectives and nouns strung together to form a watered down description of who someone was. Meaningless.  
  
It’s all utterly meaningless.  
  
_ ***  
  
John slumped down to the grass, new blades of green poking through the mound of dirt. He could feel the cold stone on his back, through the thin fabric of his jacket. He absentmindedly reached for a fallen leaf as he sprawled his legs out in front of him.  
  
The leaf was a pale orange, browning at the edges. It was crunchy and brittle, fragile in the palm of his hand. A painfully cruel reminder of the life he once held in his hands. The life he let end. The life that crumbled in front of his very eyes. With a sigh, he closed his fist around the leaf, crushing it. He felt it break into pieces so small it could pass as dust particles.  
  
Still clenching his left fist around the disintegrated leaf, he shut his eyes and exhaled, letting his head hit the heavy tombstone behind him. The pain was nice. It was a cliché sentiment, but it truly did remind him that he was alive. That he wasn’t as numb physically as he felt emotionally. It was days like today, however, that he wondered if he was glad for that reminder or not.  
  
John swallowed hard as he tried to organize his thoughts into words.  
  
“You know, it wasn’t supposed to be this way.”  
  
He paused, hoping for a reply he knew wouldn’t actually come.  
  
“Didn’t… didn’t you know? Didn’t you know that I was always meant to go before you? You knew _everything_. You could tell the exact brand of cigarette someone smoked simply by the ash and the smell. You could tell what take-away I wanted by my mood – you even knew what to order. You knew what people were trying to forget by the liquor they chose. You knew someone’s favorite beverage by the mugs they collected. You… Christ. You knew everything…”  
  
His voice broke and he shook his head, lips pursing into a thin line.   
  
“You bloody knew everything but you couldn’t deduce that I needed… I needed to die before you. You sodding selfish bastard.”  
  
John’s fingernails started to dig into the palms of his hand, red crescents forming and daring to split open.   
  
_Right, Watson. Bloody good. Calling your deceased best friend a selfish bastard at his grave. A bit not good.  
  
_ John’s lip twitched at the thought, remembering the countless times he spoke those exact words to his socially unaware friend.  
  
“A bit not good, right, Sherlock?”   
  
The small smile vanished from his mouth as quickly as it had appeared. He pushed himself up off of the ground with great effort. He gazed at the words on the rock, still too overcome with grief to really comprehend any of the letters.   
  
“How could you?” he whispered.  “Just… how could you?”  
  
Finally, he opened his closed fist, the minuscule pieces of the dying leaf taking flight. Some pieces stayed afloat in the wind while other pieces settled onto the dirt. John wiped his hands on his jeans and walked away, favouring his bad leg.  
  
***  
  
Months passed by before John was ready to go back to the cemetery.  
  
Today, he brought an unopened bottle of whiskey. It was almost harder now that eight months had passed. It had gotten so easy pushing the emotion and the memories out of his head. He knew they’d all come rushing back the moment he walked into the gates. Eight months of abandoned feeling rushing back in one, single tidal wave.   
  
Most days, John felt overwhelmed by sadness and suicidal thoughts. He made a promise to himself, though, that he would never take his own life. He would live out the rest of his days unhappy and empty. It was his own form of punishment and blame.   
  
With little grace, he dropped down to his knees, just mere inches away from the headstone. The mound of dirt was now freshly mown grass. John lifted a hand and traced his index finger along the embossed stone, feeling, memorizing every ridge. He pressed harder on a particularly jagged piece, drawing blood. John cursed under his breath and brought his finger to his mouth, sucking on the small puncture.   
  
Detesting the taste of copper on his lips and tongue, he moved quickly to open the whiskey bottle. He took a large swig, savoring the wonderful burn in his throat. He took an even bigger gulp before setting it down.  
  
“I punched your brother today.”   
  
John peered down at the beginnings of a bruise on his knuckle.  
  
“Did you know he’s been keeping surveillance of me?”   
  
_No. Of course you don’t know that.  
  
_ “It was one thing when we were running about the city, chasing criminals, you know? It was dangerous. I mean, I can’t even count how many times one or both of us almost died.”  
  
He chuckled softly to himself and downed some more whiskey.   
  
“But why is he still following me? All I do is go to the clinic and then go home. It’s not like I’m breaking any fucking laws. It’s like he gets pleasure out of my pain. Must be quite the show for him.”  
  
_I wonder how much of my grief he’s seen. Is he keeping track of my alcohol intake? Does he go through the bins and count the empty bottles? Is he aware of how often I hit things just to feel? Just to bleed? Or the amount of times I’ve eyed Sherlock’s emergency heroin stash – the one he thinks I didn’t know about? Not that I’d ever do that. But sometimes, the temptation is there.  
  
_ “Anyways. You’d have loved it, Sherlock. It’s a good thing Lestrade was there to separate us. I don’t know that I would have stopped. As much as I blame myself, I blame Mycroft too.”  
  
John uncurled his legs from underneath him and turned so his back was against the concrete.   
  
It was almost dark by the time he was three quarters finished the bottle and he hadn’t spoken in an hour. The more he drank, the easier it went down, and the more he wished he had brought two bottles instead of one. He easily finished the last quarter and drops the bottle to the ground, slightly surprised by the resounding _thunk_.   
  
John pulled his knees to his chest and folded his arms around his shins. He lowered his head and buried his face in his knees.   
  
“Miss you,” he mumbled.   
  
He tipped his head back to look to the sky and choked on an involuntary sob. It was the darkest of blues and the thousands of stars shone bright. The sight was almost too much. Too many memories. Too many.  
  
“I miss you,” John said louder. “Can you hear me? Do you?”   
  
He pounded his fists on the grave beneath him.   
  
“ _I MISS YOU_ ,” he cried out.  
  
The tears came in streams down his cheeks, his breath became uneven, and his shoulders started to shake. He’d never do this sober. He wouldn’t even dream of it. Somehow, it seemed more acceptable to have a full physical and emotional break down in the middle of a cemetery after you’ve been drinking quite heavily.   
  
John wept openly for what felt like an eternity and between each sob, he used what little breath he had to whisper, “I miss you”. To the ground, to the tombstone, to the beautiful stars that reminded him so much of what could have been. And what they already were.  
  
He fell asleep slurring any phrase of affection that struck him.   
  
***  
  
After the night he passed out at Sherlock’s grave, John went every single day, unable to help himself. Most of the time, he didn’t speak – it was comforting, in a way, just to be there. To feel his presence.   
  
Unfortunately, his daily habit soon fell by the wayside as the weather started to turn and flu season descended upon the clinic. The next time he visited was the one-year anniversary.  
  
Mrs. Hudson was having what she called a “Celebration of Life” party. Everybody was there – Mycroft, Molly, and Greg. John was expected to make an appearance even though he thought the whole affair was distasteful. They sat and shared stories they deemed worthy but were really no more than a sad attempt to mask the fact that Sherlock was an obnoxious, arrogant arsehole. Toasts were made with red wine. The saving grace was that Mycroft learned his lesson and kept his distance from John, always keeping Greg between them.   
  
After a dreadful hour fighting the urge to throttle every single person in the room, Mrs. Hudson invited John to say a few words. Because what’s a “Celebration of Life” party without the complete mental break from a still grieving and distraught best friend?   
  
John refused by throwing his nearly empty glass across the room, snatching up his jacket, and walking out before every shattered piece had a chance to hit the ground.  
  
***  
  
John didn’t stop walking until he reached Euston Square Gardens. It was lightly snowing, and the sun had already set. The first bench he saw was empty and he hurried to crumple down onto it. He could feel the light dusting of wet snowflakes through his trousers, but it didn’t really matter. It’d dry eventually and he knew he couldn’t continue standing for a moment longer.   
  
His elbows immediately came to rest on his thighs and he brought his face down into his hands. He was on the verge of hyperventilation. Surrounding noise became static, vision blurred, skin tingled, and he felt lightheaded. Everything around him seemed like it was miles away.   
  
John didn’t notice the body that had plopped down beside him until he rubbed his eyes one final time and looked up from the comfort of his hands. He sighed loudly at the unwelcome sight and averted his eyes.  
  
“Doctor Watson.”  
  
“Mycroft. I trust your face has healed.”  
  
“You could very easily see for yourself that it has.”  
  
“Yes, well, I’m trying not to look directly at it. Much like the sun, isn’t it? Look directly at it and it blinds you.”  
  
“Ha-ha,” Mycroft remarked dryly. “I assure you, I’m laughing on the inside.”   
  
“Shame that won’t help your weight.”  
  
Mycroft inhaled deeply through his nose in frustration.   
  
“Doctor Watson. Please. I did not follow you _on foot_ in this weather to antagonize you.”  
  
“Then tell me, Mycroft, why did you follow me when you know tracking me is what caused me to break your face the last time we met?”  
  
John met Mycroft’s eyes for the first time the entire night.   
  
“I simply wished to see if you were alright.”  
  
John squinted at him, his hand clenching.   
  
“My best friend is dead and in the fucking ground. Your brother. No, you daft bastard, I am most decidedly _not_ alright.”   
  
Mycroft stood slowly, putting his weight on his umbrella. He pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket and extended it to John.   
  
“What’s this, then? Trying to buy my forgiveness?”  
  
“I’m trying to give you some peace of mind. After we became consciously aware of Moriarty’s intent, we discussed some post-mortem arrangements, should there be a need for them. Most of it being no concern of yours. However, this will be of particular interest to you, of that I am sure. It’s a letter. Sherlock wrote it to you about a month before the incident and he explicitly said to give it to you when I think you needed it. I haven’t read it and I cannot guarantee this will make you feel less… emotional.”  
  
John stared at the crisp white envelope being held out to him. His hand reached out for it unintentionally. His name was written in elegant cursive and he slowly traced the letters with his finger.   
  
Mycroft turned to leave John with his thoughts.   
  
“Why now, Mycroft?”   
  
Mycroft looked down at the ground and then slowly turned his head towards John, who was still sitting in shock, gingerly fingering the unopened letter.   
  
“Because now you know that you can get through a year without him. Now you know you can get through another year, and another year after that. And that can be the most painful knowledge to possess. To realize that life goes on, the world keeps spinning, and you keep breathing. You didn’t die without him, John, regardless of whether you _wanted_ to or not. The blood still pumps, your heart still beats, and I would imagine that is a rather devastating epiphany. I feel quite certain you’ve thought of little else today.”  
  
John nodded, unable to trust his voice, his throat tightening around all the words he wished he could say. Mycroft dipped his head and took a few steps down the path. He stopped abruptly, but didn’t turn around.   
  
“Sherlock held you in the highest regard until his last breath. He spoke of your flaws as though they were not flaws at all; he spoke of them as though they were your best qualities.  I hope his final correspondence is what you need, Doctor Watson, for you never deserved this amount of heartache.”  
  
Mycroft continued down the snow-lined trail until John couldn’t see him anymore.   
  
John tucked the envelope into his pocket and went in search for a taxi.   
  
***  
  
He sat beside Sherlock’s headstone, leaning against the thick edge. As if it were Sherlock and they were sitting on the sofa like they’d done thousands of times. He imagined Sherlock reading over his shoulder, silently chastising him for not reading as quickly.  John ran his tongue across his bottom lip and bit the inside of his cheek.   
  
Carefully, he opened the envelope, pulled out the letter, and unfolded it. It had stopped snowing and he was grateful for that. He muttered incomprehensibly before beginning, his nerves catching up with him.  
  
_Dearest John,  
  
__Should you find yourself reading this letter, it is no doubt because I am no longer there and Mycroft decided today was the day you needed a reprieve from mourning. I don’t know when this letter will find its way to you – the day of, a week after, ten years later. All I can be sure of is that if you are reading it, you are broken, and I cannot do anything to fix it. Thinking that I have broken you in some way is more than I can bear.  
  
__It should be clear to you, and to everyone who knew me, that before you came along, I didn’t know how to be a friend. I didn’t know how to be human. You changed the game for me, John. Most will think it was when you shot a man in order to save my life, to save me from doing something stupid to prove I was clever, but it was the moment you showed up at the flat that saved me. I had my doubts that you would turn up, and I had a lifetime of good reason for those doubts, but in what I now know was typical Doctor John Watson behaviour, you shattered every uncertainty that day.  
  
__I was half a man back then – happy to give up my life if it meant others acknowledged my superior intelligence (oh, don’t roll your eyes, John, you know I’m right), happy to die for my own selfish agenda. Never did I dream that one day I’d have someone that I would die_ _for_ _. Everything I’ve done, everything I ever intended to do, swore to do, was for you. To keep you safe, to make sure you go on living.  
  
__You would be the first to say the world was a better place with me in it, I know you well enough to know you would say exactly that. I don’t know if that’s necessarily true and you are the only one I would confess that to. What I do know to be true is that you made_ _an incredibly selfish man become a man who knew how to love unconditionally. If I had let anything to happen to you, John, I don’t know where I’d be. Truth be told, I’m certain I’d have dived into that heroin stash you yourself have been eying (don’t be an idiot, of course I knew you knew about it).  
  
__Life would have been cold and empty again, without you. You became my world and I died protecting my world. I should have conveyed how deeply you had affected my life. I never did, and I apologize.  
  
__Please continue protecting my world for me.  
  
__Forever,  
__Sherlock Holmes  
  
_ ***  
  
For the years that followed, John tried as best he could to take care of himself for Sherlock. He threw himself into his work, even volunteering to help out at homeless shelters – something he thought Sherlock would have been proud of. He stopped drinking so much and he stopped hitting walls in fits of extreme anger and sorrow. Mostly.  
  
Occasionally, he’d meet up with Greg to go for a pint and cheap food. Ever since he’d read the letter, John begrudgingly kept in touch with Mycroft. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw Molly. There have been a couple of dates here and there but only because Harry set him up and he didn’t have the heart to say no. Nothing ever came of those dates.   
  
To an outsider, his life was decent enough. Happiness, however, was not a feat he had conquered since that unfortunate day so many years ago. Looking at John, you wouldn’t know he was an empty shell. Everything he had inside of him withered, the way a flower wilts on a rainy day. Only the sun capable of reviving a dying plant. Sherlock was his sun and he hadn’t seen the sun in nearly seven years now.  
  
John sat at the kitchen table and pulled the letter from his breast pocket, reading it again. A day didn’t go by without him reading it. Sometimes he read it aloud and sometimes he read it in his head. Sometimes he cried, and sometimes he got angry. It was different every time. He was on the cusp of discovering which emotion he’d feel today when there was a firm knocking on the door.   
  
There was only one person it could be – Lestrade. Mycroft had an irritating habit of walking in without knocking and Mrs. Hudson liked to offer a shrill “Yoo-hoo!” before entering.  
  
John sighed.  
  
“It’s open!” John shouted from the table, scrambling to tuck the letter in his pocket again.  
  
Greg sauntered in and promptly took a seat at the table, across from John. His hair was a mess and he had dark bags under his eyes. He had a few years to go until retirement, but he still did as much fieldwork as he could.  
  
“I assume this is not a social call. What’s up, Greg?”  
  
“Right you are. I guess it’s obvious I’m in the middle of a case. I know… Christ, look, I know you haven’t done this in ages… since… well. Since then. But I’d really appreciate it if you could take a look. Maybe at the body and some of the case files?”  
  
“Wow… uh, jeez…”  
  
“I’m sorry, I know… I know it’ll be difficult for you and I wouldn’t ask unless I needed it…”  
  
John looked at Greg, seeing the desperation. He was never good at saying no when a friend needed help.   
  
“Alright. I’ll give it a shot. I don’t… I can’t promise I’ll actually be useful.”  
  
“Thanks, mate. You’re really helping me out. Molly’s at the morgue today if you want to just pop in. Here, I have some of the files. If you find anything or think of anything… come down to the offices, okay?”  
  
John stood up and led Greg to the door. Greg pulled him in for a brief hug, patting him roughly on the shoulders. Tears pooled in Greg’s eyes, though he tried to hide them for John’s sake. Everybody who had ever met John knew that sympathy was never a thing he appreciated.   
  
Greg left and John opened the files. He spread them out and then tacked them on the crime wall. It hadn’t been used since Moriarty, but Mrs. Hudson had carefully removed each slip of paper and stored it.   
  
He stood and looked at the wall, unconsciously steepling his fingers under his chin.   
  
***  
  
It took days before the case was cracked – longer than what would have been acceptable by Sherlock’s standards. John found something that had been missed in the autopsy reports and the pieces fit into place almost effortlessly from thereon after.  
  
John felt more alive than he had in seven years. It was still different, doing this on his own. And the memories threatened to drown him at every turn. But the pride he felt when he figured out what the Yard had been missing was almost indescribable. For the first time, he realized that feeling must have been part of what drove Sherlock to find other peoples mistakes. He was also, of course, an arrogant sod. But John was certain that feeling of pride was what Sherlock strived towards. It made John feel closer to him, and he enjoyed that.  
  
Now all they had to do was wait for the perpetrator to show up at the clever set-up and John could chase him down. He loved all the intellectual stimulation, he really did, but he thrived on being the muscle, the protector.  
  
He sat slumped against a brick wall in a dirty alleyway, waiting. He grinned to himself when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.   
  
“The game is on,” he whispered to himself.  
  
***  
  
After the success of that case, Lestrade called on John for help on a regular basis for the six months, even on cases that were not particularly difficult to work out. It was a big help for Lestrade, and it benefited John. There was no doubt that he still felt hollow, and it was still a struggle to wake up in the morning, but at least now there was some semblance of purpose again. Something to commit to _besides_ the memory of Sherlock.  
  
He barely had any time to visit Sherlock’s grave now, which was both a blessing and a curse. If he was able to stop by once a month, he considered it a miracle – and maybe that was a good thing.   
  
As luck would have it, though, he had the entire day off and he took the opportunity to go to the cemetery.   
  
In nearly eight years, John dropped by this exact spot hundreds and hundreds of times, but never once did he encounter someone else. Mycroft had made a brief appearance at the funeral, and of course showed up at the flat on the anniversary, but to John’s knowledge, Mycroft never stepped foot into the graveyard. Which meant only one thing. He knew John would make an appearance, and he was waiting for him.  
  
John huffed and joined Mycroft. They stood, side by side, facing the tombstone in complete silence.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“What, I can’t mourn the loss of my deceased brother?”   
  
“Don’t play the fool, Mycroft. I’ve known you for a decade and I know when you’re up to something.”  
  
There was little else that pissed Mycroft off more than John calling him out. His nose twitched and he turned to face John. John stayed staring at Sherlock’s name etched in stone.  
  
“Of course. I have a mission I’d like you to consider.”  
  
“Okay? I’m going to need more than that.”  
  
“It’s dangerous.”  
  
“So I gathered. Still not _quite_ enough to go on.”  
  
“You’d be keeping track of and subsequently chasing down the most notorious arms dealer in Western Europe. I have someone already on it, but he could use your expertise.”   
  
“Why me, Mycroft? As much as it pains me to say it, I’m getting old. I can’t do this forever – hell, I don’t know if I’ll be able to do this next year.”  
  
“I trust your experience and capabilities, Doctor Watson. I have no doubts that you and my agent can accomplish this task in no time. You’d be serving your country and I know how that motivates you.”  
  
John squinted his eyes and finally turned to Mycroft.   
  
“Let me see the files.”  
  
“No files.”  
  
“What do you mean there are no files?”  
  
“I would debrief you on the way to your first location in Bavaria.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“Tonight. Morning at the very latest.”  
  
“I’ll see you in the morning then. Now leave.”  
  
Mycroft nodded, a sour expression on his face. He quietly walked away, swinging his umbrella. Halfway to the black car awaiting him, his mobile buzzed. Instinctually, he rolled his eyes, knowing full well who it’d be.  
  
_[17:48] What are you doing, Mycroft?   SH  
  
__[17:49] What should have been done years ago, brother mine.  
  
__[17:54] You will ruin EVERYTHING.   SH  
  
__[17:59] For someone over five hundred miles away, you certainly have a close eye on John. You know, he punched me for tracking him. I wonder what he’d do to you?  
  
__[18:01] Piss off.   SH  
  
_ ***  
  
Years ago when John received Sherlock’s letter, he took to writing in a notebook. It was just for him, unlike his blog. He could write his feelings down, and know that nobody else would ever know. It helped him be a little more open, a little more honest about how he truly felt.  
  
After accepting Mycroft’s mission, John went home to Baker Street, made a cup of tea, and sat down to write. It seemed silly, maybe a little pointless, but if something were to happen on this operation, he wanted it to be known that he was in love. It was the closest he’d ever get to telling Sherlock and he needed to do it. To be honest, he knew it was something he should have written down ages ago.  
  
When he was finished pouring his heart out onto the paper before him, he sighed and closed the notebook. John had already told Mrs. Hudson that he wouldn’t be around for a while, and he had shot off a few texts to Greg. He called Harry but he’d be shocked if she remembered the next morning. Luckily, he didn’t have to worry about the clinic – he was positive Mycroft took care of that.   
  
John abandoned his place in the sitting area and quietly snuck into Sherlock’s room. It was only the fourth time he had allowed himself to enter. The previous three times, it was only to peek his head in. Tonight, though, he had another idea.  
  
He undressed down to his pants and curled up in the sheets on the bed. His head hit the pillow and he breathed in deeply. It still smelled like Sherlock. John fell into a deep, heavy sleep.  
  
***  
  
John had his duffel bag slung over his shoulders and he held his passport. Unsurprisingly, there was a car to pick him up and take him to the airport at sunrise. Mycroft was waiting for him in the private plane, as he knew he would be, but he didn’t bother hiding his disappointment.   
  
“Good morning, Doctor.”  
  
“But is it really a good morning if I have to be on this flight with you?”  
  
“It’s comforting to know a part of my brother has lived on through you,” Mycroft sneered.  
  
“Piss off.”  
  
“Uncanny.”  
  
John dropped into a seat by the window. At least he’d have a good view. He always really loved flying over Germany.  
  
“So. You said you’d debrief me. Can we get on with it?”  
  
“When you get to Bavaria, a car will be waiting to take you to Berchtesgaden. You will meet your partner there, and you will await further instruction. Your partner will have all the information you’ll need.”  
  
“That’s… that’s it? That was a shit debriefing by your standards, Mycroft.”  
  
“It’s all I can say until you meet with the other agent.”  
  
“You insisted on accompanying me. What was the bloody point?”  
  
Mycroft smiled tersely. John grumbled and put on his headphones. At least he could pretend that Mycroft wasn’t there. It was a small victory.  
  
  
***  
  
He slept through most of the flight, and most of the car ride from Bavaria. He was now minutes away from his location in Berchtesgaden and John would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. It didn’t help that he was on a dirt road, driving through the bloody forest.  
  
The car stopped in front of a small, secluded cabin.  
  
“So, is there any point in asking if you know who the agent I’m meeting is?”  
  
John wasn’t surprised when the driver stayed silent. He sighed and opened the door, dragging his duffel bag out with him. The moment he slammed the door shut, the car sped away.  
  
He knocked politely on the cabin door. When there was no answer, which was surprising – he was told his partner would be waiting for him, he grew slightly concerned. He carefully placed his hand on the doorknob and tried turning it. It was unlocked and he was baffled. If this is such a high stakes operative, should this moron really leave the door fucking _unlocked_? He pushed the wooden door open a few inches, peering in. It was dark except for the small rays of light shining through the windows. He slid in, quietly setting his bag down on the floor. Reaching behind his back, he curled his fingers around the gun that resided between his skin and waistband.   
  
This was not a good start.  
  
John heard distant rustling coming from another room. He stepped as lightly as he could, as slowly as he could, inching closer to the noise. He flung the door open and pulled his gun. The man in front of him, his back turned to John, straightened and put his hands hesitantly in the air. The man was dressed impeccably, his hair dark and cropped relatively short. Only a little longer than John’s.  
  
“Are you my partner?”  
  
He received a small nod in response.  
  
“Turn around. Slowly. Keep your hands in the air.”  
  
John kept the gun aimed as the man pivoted on his feet.   
  
“Hello, John.”  
  
***  
  
John hastily clicked the safety on. Old habits die hard – even after years of believing Sherlock to be dead, his first instinct was to make sure no harm came to him. John shook his head violently.  
  
“Nope. No. You’re dead.  _I buried you._ Eight years ago. I watched you jump off of a roof. I saw the blood. I saw your… I took your pulse. No.”   
  
Sherlock pursed his lips and looked down.   
  
“Eight. Years. You let me…” John choked on his words. “You let me believe. Jesus, Sher...”  
  
John crumpled to the floor at the thought of finishing his name aloud. He was on his knees, bent over at the waist, his head buried in his arms on the floor. Sobs wracked his body, and he didn’t care. He didn’t care if Sherlock saw, or heard. He deserved the pain of knowing what he did to John. He deserved the guilt that was undoubtedly twisting inside as he watched John fall apart before him.  
  
Sherlock gracefully sat down beside him, cross-legged.  
  
“I… John. I’m sorry. You have to understand that everything was for you. You… you were never supposed to know.”  
  
John let out a laugh, sounding maniacal. He sat up straight and stared at Sherlock.  
  
“Oh! Bloody brilliant! So, you’re not sorry you faked your suicide, no, you’re sorry you were found out! Of course. Why am I surprised? That’s so very _you_ , isn’t it?”  
  
“John.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“John. I needed you to be safe. To be alive.”  
  
“Alive.” John laughed that maniacal laugh again.   
  
“You thought what I was doing was _living_? Yes, yes, for all intents and purposes, I was breathing, but I wasn’t _living_. You _destroyed_ me. I died the day you did. Except, I guess, only one of us died that day, huh?”  
  
John abruptly stood up and wandered over to the far wall. It housed an expensive looking hearth, all exposed brick and marble. He snarled to himself and clenched his fists.  
  
“John.”  
  
Exhaling hard, John closed his left fist, and punched the brick as hard as he could – which, let’s be honest, was pretty hard. He closed his eyes and continued his deep breathing, unaware of the searing pain he felt in his hand, unaware of the blood spilling from his knuckles.   
  
Sherlock was at John’s side in a heartbeat. He threw caution into the wind and cradled John’s hand in his own.  
  
“Oh, hell, John. You idiot.”  
  
John looked up at Sherlock and to his own surprise, he giggled. He saw a small, shy smile form on Sherlock’s face.  
  
“I don’t suppose you brought your kit?”  
  
“No. In hindsight, I really should have.”  
  
“Well, I don’t think you anticipated putting a brick wall in its place. It’s fine. I’ll ring Mycroft. We have to wrap it with something first.”  
  
Sherlock let go of John’s bloodied (and very likely broken) hand, and stripped off the white t-shirt he was wearing. John eyed the shirt questioningly.  
  
He shrugged. “I was undercover. I had to change my look.”  
  
John couldn’t help but stare at Sherlock’s bare torso. He was more muscular – everything more defined and toned. But his skin was no longer flawless. In fact, there were more scars than he could count. Some were more faded lines of silver; others were still raised and pink.  
  
While Sherlock was busy wrapping John’s hand, John raised his other one and lightly touched one of the fresher scars residing on Sherlock’s chest. It was long, starting at his collarbone and travelling to his sternum. John could tell it wasn’t a clean cut, and that it was created with a crude weapon. He traced his finger along the edge of it, swallowing the lump in his throat.   
  
“W-what happened to you?”   
  
“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” Sherlock replied, gently patting John’s injured hand. “All wrapped. I’ll ring Mycroft now.”  
  
“Wait. It can wait.”  
  
John let his good hand travel to Sherlock’s waist and tugged him forward. His heart raced as he tenderly placed kisses on top of the raised flesh. After kissing the entire length of the recently healed wound, he pulled away and looked up at Sherlock through his thick, blonde eyelashes. The tips of his ears flushed with embarrassment.  
  
“I’m…shit. I’m sorry.”  
  
Sherlock grasped John’s hips, turning them, and delicately pressed him against the brick. He tilted and lowered his head, bringing his lips to John’s. A small gasp escaped John and after a moment, he pulled away slightly.   
  
“I’m still mad at you,” John whispered.  
  
Sherlock touched his forehead to John’s and closed his eyes.    
  
“I’m mad at me, too.”  
  
John breathed in deeply and let his eyelids fall, pulling Sherlock closer so they were pressed together. His brow furrowed when he felt something seeping through his thin jumper. Slowly, John opened his eyes and gasped.   
  
“Sh-Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes glazed over as he looked down at his naked torso. His eyes met John’s, and Sherlock leisurely dragged his index and middle finger from his bellybutton to the base of his throat.  
  
John’s eyes widened in horror and disbelief as Sherlock studied his fingers. They were coated in a red, sticky liquid. A choked sob escaped John’s throat at the sight. His heart started beating rapidly, his brain scrambled to put together the pieces.  
  
All he could do was watch as Sherlock lifted his blood-covered fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean. His lips curled into a smile at the taste.  
  
“Blood,” Sherlock murmured.  
  
A drop of crimson dribbled down his chin.  
  
“Your scars, Sherlock! They’re bleeding! We need to stop the bleeding!”  
  
John slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist and coaxed him into a laying position on the floor. He reached for a cushion from the sofa and tucked it under Sherlock’s head.  
  
There was no way John’s jumper could absorb all the blood, so he sprinted to the kitchen and found a pile of tea towels in a drawer. He hurried back to his friend and shook his head, panic starting to really set in.  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock...”  
  
John knelt beside him with a flannel, putting pressure on the wound he suspected was the deepest. The same one he kissed mere seconds ago. The flow of blood showed no signs of slowing down. In fact, John could have sworn it only increased.  
  
“It’s not _stopping_! Damnit,” John cursed.  
  
“It’s just a magic trick, John.  
  
Startled by the familiar sentence, John snapped his head up and focused on Sherlock. He suddenly felt overcome with nausea; he was choking on the bile that threatened to vacate his esophagus. John gently turned Sherlock’s head to the side, and immediately backed away.  
  
The cushion beneath Sherlock’s head was completely saturated with blood. So much so that it leaked from the fabric onto the tile. John could see the part of Sherlock’s skull that had been fractured when he fell. His wounds didn’t stop bleeding; it was like he had an endless supply of blood and John was destined to watch him bleed out for the rest of his life.  
  
“I just found you again,” John whispered. “Please don’t go away…”  
  
Sherlock rolled his head towards John and smiled crookedly at him.  
  
“Why did you let me fall, John?”  
  
John blinked.  
  
“You did this.”  
  
“No!”  
  
“I’m dying, John. It’s your fault.”  
  
“I…I didn’t…”  
  
“Goodbye, John.”  
  
Sherlock’s arm flopped towards John, who was still backed against the wall. He hesitantly crawled forward and held his fingers to Sherlock’s wrist, trying to find a pulse.  
  
There was nothing.  
  
Tears started dropping from John’s eyes as he muttered to himself that this couldn’t be happening. Not again. He sniffed and put his ear to Sherlock’s heart, praying he could hear a faint beating.  
  
He couldn’t.  
  
The side of his face was covered in Sherlock’s blood as he stumbled away. Vaguely aware that his body had wedged itself into a corner of the room, he sunk down to the floor with his knees pulled to his chest.  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut and started rocking back and forth. John tried screaming Sherlock’s name but all that came out were hoarse whispers.  
  
_I can’t watch you die again. Please, don’t do this.  
  
_ ***  
  
“John? John. Can you hear me?”  
  
He felt a heavy hand tapping his face, trying to rouse him. John blinked a few times, shifting his eyes to look at his surroundings. His vision was still blurry with sleep and the sheets he was twisted in were soaked with sweat. Taking a deep breath, he looked at his hands, checking for blood. There was no red staining to be found, but he noticed how much his hands were shaking. His throat was sore and dry; his eyes hurt and if he had to guess, he’d guess they were swollen from crying.  
  
“John?”  
  
“S-Sherlock…?”  
  
“No, John. No. I’m afraid not.”  
  
John struggled to sit up, quickly discovering that every muscle in his body ached. He settled for a slouch against the headboard. He blinked a few times, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the lamp lit room. Suddenly, he became aware of where he was. It wasn’t his room, and it certainly wasn’t a cabin in Germany. He was in Sherlock’s room, where he fell asleep the night before. And Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He groaned loudly when the shadowed figure stepped towards the bed.  
  
_Mycroft_.  
  
John cleared his throat awkwardly.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“It’s sunrise. I came to collect you for your mission.”  
  
“Oh. Right. Uhm. Just give me a moment.”  
  
Mycroft held up his hand as John tried to lever himself off of the bed. John frowned at him, confused.  
  
“That won’t be necessary, Doctor.”  
  
“I’m fine, Mycroft.”  
  
“Did I say you weren’t?”  
  
John narrowed his eyes at him.  
  
Sighing, Mycroft explained. “It seems my agent went a little rogue. He turned over the dealer an hour ago. I was just arriving at Baker Street when the call came in.”  
  
Accepting this, John simply nodded. He didn’t hide his surprise when Mycroft sat at the foot of the bed.  
  
“May I… would it be out of line to ask why you thought I was Sherlock?”  
  
John pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
“He’s gone, John…”  
  
“Don’t you think I know that?” John snapped. Exhaling, he continued, “I had a dream. Or, a nightmare, I guess. It started out as a dream.”  
  
Mycroft made an encouraging noise, signalling for John to continue.  
  
“You and I had flown to Bavaria. We parted ways and when I arrived at a cabin in Berchtesgaden. The door was unlocked and I had a bad feeling. Soldier’s instinct and whatnot. I thought the agent had been compromised.  I… when I found him, it was Sherlock. And he was alive. Breathing. Beautiful.”  
  
He paused, smiling briefly at the image.  
  
“I was angry, I was so angry. I hit a brick wall. Literally. And he patched up my hand with his t-shirt. He… he had scars all over his body, Mycroft. Torture wounds.”  
  
John decided to leave out the intimate moments.  
  
“The next thing I knew, they had all opened. They were pouring blood faster than I could stop it. And then a head wound appeared. I couldn’t stop the blood,” John gasped. “I tried so hard… I tried. _I tried_ , I swear.”  
  
Mycroft looked at him with sympathy – a look that didn’t often take up residence on his face.  
  
“You watched him die again, didn’t you? How many times have you dreamt about him dying, John?”  
  
“How many days are there in eight years?” John smiled weakly at him. “This was different, though. It’s never happened like this before.”  
  
“When I arrived, you were shouting. It took longer than I’m proud of to deduce what you were saying; you were so hysterical. You recited word for word the conversation leading up to his demise. Over and over, for an hour. I tried everything to wake you, but I couldn’t get through to you. You screamed yourself hoarse.”  
  
“It felt so real,” John whispered.  
  
They sat in companionable silence until Mycroft’s mobile buzzed in his trouser pocket. He stood up and turned to address John.  
  
“Well. It appears I have some business to attend to and I must depart.”  
  
Mycroft pivoted on his heel and strode towards the door. He stopped in the doorway and spoke quietly.  
  
“If there is anything I can do to ease your suffering, Doctor, please do not hesitate to get in touch.”  
  
“Thank you, Mycroft.”  
  
“I fear I don’t deserve your thanks.”  
  
John’s forehead wrinkled in confusion as he watched Mycroft exit the room. When he heard the click of the flats door, he scooted back down into the warmth of Sherlock’s bed and burrowed himself in the quilt.  
  
Quietly, he let his sorrow take over until he was exhausted and could only stare at the blank ceiling.  
  
He’d never felt so numb.  
  
***  
  
John did nothing but drink himself silly the following week. Whenever he scolded himself, remembering his unspoken promises to Sherlock – and himself – he simply downed more alcohol. It was like the worlds most painful drinking game.   
  
_Think of dead best friend? Take a shot.  
  
__Break promise to dead best friend? Take two.  
  
__Cry over dead best friend? Try four.  
  
__Consider grabbing your gun? Drink the entire fucking bottle.  
  
_ He had barrelled through a bottle and a half of cheap red wine by the time Lestrade started pounding on the door. John shakily stood up from his armchair and stumbled in the general direction of the knocking. It only took a few steps for him to tumble down face first to the floor.   
  
“John! Open the damn door!”  
  
Grumbling, he tried crawling across the floor to no avail. In a frustrated rage, he slammed his palm onto the ground. He rolled over onto his back and let his arms flop sloppily beside him.  
  
“Lessssstrade?” John called.  
  
Giving up, Greg effectively rammed his shoulder into the door, bursting through – it’s not the first time he’s had to do this. He cursed under his breath seeing John sprawled out. There was no doubt in his mind that if he left and came back the next morning, John would still be in that exact same spot after blacking out. Greg sighed and sauntered over to John who was doing a frankly fantastic impression of a corpse and stood over him. He shook his head in dismay and bent down, scooping his arms under John’s armpits and hauling him over to the sofa. John landed gracelessly and his eyes fluttered open.  
  
“G-Greg…? Where… where am I?” he slurred.  
  
Lestrade pulled a quilt over John’s inebriated body and knelt in front of his slackened face.  
  
“You’re at home, mate. Baker Street.”  
  
“It’s only home if Sherl…if…am I dead yet?”  
  
“You’re breaking my heart, man. Sherlock wouldn’t want this. Sleep it off. I’ll be here when you come to.”  
  
John glared at him, wishing desperately that he could control his limbs enough to walk out the door. Or push Greg towards it. He fumbled for the half empty bottle still sitting on the coffee table and finally grasped it tight enough that he was confident it wouldn’t slip from his hands.  
  
“Whoa, no, no. Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”  
  
Defiantly, John took a rather large swig straight from the bottle. He attempted to raise his eyebrows at Lestrade, challenging him to try and take the liquor away from him.  
  
“If you want me to sleep, I’m finishing the wine,” he said brokenly.  
  
At a loss for what to do, Greg held his hands up in surrender and motioned for him to continue, silently hating himself for having to allow this one more night.  
  
Within twenty minutes, John dropped the empty bottle to the ground, vaguely aware that it broke, and felt the effects hitting his body. His head was spinning – or was it the room? – and his eyelids started drooping.  
  
It was nothing short of sweet, dreamless oblivion.   
  
***  
  
_[03:18] It’s getting bad, Myc. –GL  
  
__[03:19] How could it possibly be worse? –MH  
  
__[03:25] He was nearly unconscious on the floor and didn’t know where he was. –GL  
  
__[03:27] Doesn’t sound extraordinarily different than the past six days, Gregory. –MH  
  
__[03:29] He asked if he was dead yet. –GL  
  
__[03:46] I see. That is quite troublesome, indeed. –MH  
  
_ ***  
  
_[04:01] Kua Fu. –MH  
  
_ ***  
  
John awoke when the offensively bright sun began shining through the window of the sitting room. He was tired of the brightness now. When he was sober enough to form a coherent thought, he fancied himself a bit like Icarus. He flew too close to the sun, he was so attracted to the warmth it brought; the sheer beauty of what it represented. What he forgot was that beautiful things are often the most dangerous. He flew too close to the sun, and got burned. Groaning, he banished the thought from his mind. It was far too early to be insightful, and his head was throbbing way too much.  
  
“There’s paracetamol and a glass of water on the table.”  
  
John snapped his head up, wincing when it felt like his temples were being meticulously tortured by razor blades. He grunted, dumping three capsules from the bottle and downing them with a gulp of water.  
  
“Did we have a case?”  
  
Greg snorted in disdain.  
  
“No, John, we didn’t.”  
  
“My head is killing me, Greg. I’m not in the mood for puzzles. What are you doing here?”  
  
“What, you don’t remember? Shocker. I dropped by after shift. You were so fucked up, you couldn’t even stumble – no, you couldn’t even crawl, to answer the door. When I broke the door in, I found you basically passed out on the ground and you didn’t know where you were.”  
  
John pursed his lips and nodded.   
  
“What’s your point?”  
  
Greg abruptly stood up from the chair he’d been sitting on, forcefully knocking it backwards.  
  
“Jesus Christ, mate. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. To the people who _care_ about you. We’ve all already lost _so much_. Are you so selfish you’re going to make us lose you too?”  
  
John carefully peeled back the quilt settled atop him and warily got to his feet. He’d forgotten that his second wine bottle was smashed to shards in front of the sofa and he could hear bigger pieces crackle as he stood on them. His anger was so consuming that he didn’t feel a thing on his skin.  
  
Anybody who knew John knew this behaviour was lethal. His breathing was even and calm, his heart hadn’t started beating erratically with fury. The air surrounding him was vile. No, this was a beast of another kind. He presented a quiet kind of threat. The kind you don’t see coming.  
  
Knowingly, Greg stepped back a few paces.  
  
“ _We’ve_ lost so much?” John fumed. “How _dare_ you. My entire life was comprised of him. I lived for _him._ You have your work, and Mycroft. And he has you. He also has the _entire British nation._ Molly has her ugly god damned cat and her dumb hipster boyfriend. Mrs. Hudson has her sister and her friends and her fucking herbal soothers. What do I have, Greg? Tell me. All of you have _someone_ or _something_ to revolve your world around. Tell me what the fuck I have.”  
  
“John… we all loved him.”  
  
John’s eyes went impossibly dark and his hands clenched at his sides.  
  
“No. _I_ loved him.”  
  
“Of course you did, he was your best friend.”  
  
He picked up the empty cup from the table and threw it at the fireplace, revelling in the mesmerizing sound of glass exploding against brick.

“Fuck you. You’re not listening. _I loved him._ ”

Greg was taken aback by the confession. Not because it was surprising; everybody knew John loved Sherlock. No, he was startled because to his knowledge, this was the first time John had acknowledged it. Before he had any time to respond, John was shouting at him to leave.

He decided it was better to leave and contact Mycroft instead of making this any worse. He held his hands up and slowly shuffled to the door, never turning his back on John. It pained him to feel so afraid of his friend. Before he stepped over the threshold, he looked up at John who had his hands clutching his hair.

“He loved you, too,” Greg whispered loudly.

Greg exited the flat and made his way to the pavement. When the front door clicked shut, he closed his eyes and pressed his back to the wood. He pulled out his mobile and texted Mycroft immediately.

_[06:59] Baby, I’m really worried about John. –GL_

_[07:01] As am I. –MH_

_[07:02] What are we going to do? –GL_

_[07:05] It’s time. -MH_

_[07:06] Christ. –GL  
  
__[07:14] Indeed. –MH  
  
__[07:20] …Gregory? –MH  
  
__[07:21] What is it, Myc? –GL  
  
__[07:33] I love you. –MH  
  
__[07:34] I would very much appreciate it if you would kindly not die any time soon. Or before death knocks at my door. –MH  
  
__[07:36] I love you, too. I’ll be home soon. –GL  
  
_ ***  
  
John hastily plucked the shards of glass from the soles of his feet and wrapped gauze around them. It was a sloppy job, but he frankly just didn’t care. What are more scars? He’s broken anyway. He settled down at the kitchen table with a glass three fingers full of scotch and his journal.  
  
_Dear Sherlock,  
  
__I’m mad at you. I am so mad at you that it’s overwhelming. My world crumbled the day you jumped. I thought I could still save you. Talk you down. But I couldn’t. It was always your mission, supposedly, to protect me but I’m not sure you ever realized that I would have been happy living the rest of my life protecting_ _you_ _.  
  
__I would walk away a thousand times over if it meant you didn’t have to jump. If I had walked away from you, you could have continued on not having a pressure point. I convinced myself I was your greatest asset when in reality, I turned out to be your biggest weakness. I will never forgive myself for that.  
  
__I was a soldier. I’m not naïve enough to think you can be invincible from life. I’ve seen bad men live when they should have died, and I’ve seen good men die when they should have lived. I’ve seen children shot at, and mothers killed. Nobody is invincible. Life will chew you up and spit you out – you become nothing more than a disintegrated heap of nothingness. The world doesn’t care about you. Not the way people promise you it does when you’re growing up.  
  
__No, through all of this, Sherlock, I’ve realized the world doesn’t give a shit if you’re broken and falling apart. It doesn’t stop for your pain. Nobody slows down. You know, every day you walk past people who are on their way to a funeral, visiting someone in the hospital, on their way to get diagnosed for some terminal illness, planning their suicide. So many people who are cracking from the stress and the pain. You see these people every day and you’d never know their sorrow.  
  
__All of these people, wishing life would stop for just a moment so they could catch their balance, their breath. I never realized just how indifferent the universe was of everybody’s suffering. The world doesn’t stop when you’re hurting. But sometimes… sometimes I think it should.  
  
__I’ll be with you soon, my love.  
  
__Yours,  
__Dr. John H. Watson.  
  
__P.S: It’s what people do, don’t they?  
  
_ ***  
  
Carefully, John tore the page from his journal and folded it into thirds, slipping it into a white envelope and sealing it. In his best handwriting, he scrawled Sherlock’s name on the front and blew on the ink lightly to dry it. Swallowing hard, he placed it gingerly into his breast pocket and shrugged on his jacket. He quickly drank the waiting scotch and headed to the door. John grabbed his cane and took one quick look around the flat.  
  
He was bombarded with a plethora of memories.  
  
The time Sherlock was experimenting with different levels of intoxication. Vomit ended up in inexplicable places; the ceiling, the fireplace, a particularly hideous lampshade. Sherlock learned very quickly that night to _never_ drink an excess of blue liquor.  
  
The time Sherlock accidentally lit John’s chair on fire. He had felt so guilty that he actually asked Mycroft to have a replica made before John came back home from a conference.  
  
The time John caught Sherlock playing World of Warcraft with, of all people, Irene Adler. Sherlock’s character was a troll rogue and Irene’s was an undead warlock. It was, oddly, very fitting.  
  
The time John barely stopped Sherlock from tattooing himself. And then the time when John woke up only to have Sherlock hovering above him with his homemade tattoo gun. John had a lock installed to his bedroom door that day.  
  
The time Sherlock cried watching E.T and John held him for an hour, or the time John had the flu and Sherlock nursed him back to health.  
  
Sniffling, John walked out of 221B and never looked back.  
  
***  
  
_[14:02] Update. –SH  
  
__[14:03] He’s left Baker Street. He’s taking the scenic route to the cemetery. –MH  
  
__[14:04] State of mind? –SH  
  
__[14:05] Resigned. –MH  
  
__[14:07] Stall him, Mycroft. I can get there within the hour. –SH  
  
__[14:10] Gregory and I are on our way. With any luck, we’ll beat him there. He won’t want an audience. –MH  
  
__[14:11] Does he have his gun? –SH  
  
__[14:14] Yes. He hasn’t been without it since you left. –MH  
  
_ ***  
  
As he started towards Sherlock’s plot, John glanced up and growled to himself when he saw Mycroft and Lestrade holding hands, staring at the tombstone in front of them. He didn’t acknowledge them when he brushed past and removed the envelope from his pocket. Closing his eyes, he placed a small kiss over Sherlock’s handwritten name and crouched down to gently dig a shallow hole in front of the engraved stone. When he set it down, he pushed a bit of dirt around the edges to keep it in place. He stood up stiffly and turned to finally face his friends.  
  
“May as well skip the pleasantries, don’t you think?”  
  
“If that is your wish, Doctor,” Mycroft replied.  
  
“Right. I imagine it’s no coincidence you’re here today.”  
  
“Quite correct.”  
  
“It’s admirable you think you can stop me, Mycroft.”  
  
“Oh, Doctor, I never thought for one moment that I could.”  
  
“And what about you, Greg?” John enquired. “Hmm? Going to arrest me? Put me in a holding cell for the night?” John rolled his eyes.  
  
“I’m here for Myc.”  
  
John snorted in disgust. Once again he turned his back to them and stalked over to the back of Sherlock’s headstone. He sunk down against it and pulled his Sig from the waistband of his jeans. He’d gone through the process of loading this gun so many times that it was simply muscle memory now. John actually found the routine soothing. Once it was loaded, he left the safety on; it wasn’t quite the right time yet.  
  
With a deep sigh, he pulled a flask from the inside pocket of his jacket. Silently, he unscrewed the cap and guzzled as much as he could in one go. It burned his throat but the warmth in his chest and his stomach was worth it. If he’s being honest, he’s been relatively tipsy since Greg vacated the flat that morning. He could hear Mycroft chattering away, but John ignored him.  
  
What a cliché he’d become. A war veteran suffering from PTSD, sitting at a grave with a gun in hand, liquid courage in the other.  
  
He shut his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the alcohol flow through his veins like blood. Unconsciously, he traced the butt of the gun with his finger and wished everything around him would fade away.  
  
***  
  
_[14:56] Where are you? –MH  
  
__[15:01] Ten minutes out. –SH  
  
__[15:03] For the love of God, please hurry. –MH  
  
_ ***  
  
Greg leaned in towards Mycroft, mouth close to his ear, whispering, “Should we maybe warn him…?”  
  
Mycroft checked his watch, noting it had only been three minutes since his last contact with his presumed dead brother. For once in his life, he was at a loss. This wasn’t something that happened to him frequently, and he didn’t know what was best for John, emotionally.  
  
“It’s going to obliterate his psyche. How does one begin to prepare somebody for that kind of revelation?”  
  
Lestrade helplessly shrugged his shoulders and sighed heavily. He untangled his fingers from Mycroft’s and slid his arm around his waist, clenching his fist in the pristine overcoat. Mycroft slung his arm around Greg’s shoulders and squeezed him tightly, planting a chaste kiss to his stubbly cheek.  
  
Mycroft gently patted between Greg’s shoulder blades and began stepping towards John, slowly and carefully. He allowed his feet to shuffle across fallen leaves and twigs, making enough sound so John wasn’t entirely startled.  
  
“May I?”  
  
John gestured shakily to the ground beside him. “You run a government for a living, Mycroft. I don’t think you need to ask.”  
  
“Perhaps. However, I respect you enough to request permission.”  
  
Clearing his throat, Mycroft slid his arms out of his coat and spread the fabric out on the ground before gracefully sitting down. John was sitting with his knees pulled to his chest at this point, the flask emptied, his gun gripped in his left hand and dangling at his side. Mycroft sat on his backside with his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, hands neatly folded in his lap.  
  
“For a politician, I would have assumed you had no problems with getting a little dirty.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
John looked pointedly at Mycroft’s jacket masquerading as a blanket.  
  
“Ah. It isn’t the dirt that distresses me, Doctor. Any drycleaner worth his salt would have no issues.”  
  
“So, you’re just a pretentious prick?”  
  
“Touché. However, that isn’t the case. No, you see, John Watson, it’s the infestation of insects that inhabit nature that I find unbearable.”  
  
“Seriously?” John laughed. Loudly. “You’re not intimidated by the most threatening men on this god forsaken planet. In fact, a brilliant man once told me that you were the most dangerous man I’d ever meet – and you’re afraid of _bugs_?”  
  
“Indeed. Rather curious, yes? Individually, they are quite harmless. Perhaps an ant will find its way to an unclothed foot, a moth fluttering annoyingly around your head, maybe a mosquito leaves a bite on your arm. Certainly not life and death, would you concur?”   
  
“I suppose so, yes.”  
  
“Good. Tell me, Doctor, what happens when insects band together? One sting from a wasp won’t incapacitate you – unless you’re allergic, of course – but a swarm stinging every inch of your skin? Most insects are innocent. Just trying to survive. Making their own way in the world. It’s admirable, really.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake, what is the point to this _excruciating_ diatribe?”  
  
“My point is that one mosquito bite is unlikely to affect you. The more you get, however, the more likely it is to disrupt your life. The more likely it is that it’ll pass a disease on, or the wound will become infected. Much like criminals. One is easy. I can knock one criminal off of their feet with the flick of my fingers, similar to flicking an ant off of my foot. The problem becomes when they form a network: a web of felons. It’s much more difficult to swat hundreds away instead of just one. Do you understand?”  
  
“I understand the metaphor. What I don’t understand is why you’re telling me it.”  
  
Mycroft looked at his watch again – eight minutes since his last contact. Then he proceeded to check his mobile, praying to deities he didn’t believe in, that there’d be a missed text message. There wasn’t. With a sneaky slip of the finger, he tapped the correct speed dial.  
  
John narrowed his eyes.  
  
“You’re stalling. Why? I’ve already told you, you can’t stop me.”  
  
“No. No, I don’t believe I can. Answer me this hypothetical, please?”  
  
John rolled his eyes and nodded in consent.  
  
“If Sherlock came back right now, if you discovered he miraculously lived through his fall and came back. After all of this time, John, would he be able to stop you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why ever not? He’d be alive. Tangible. In front of you.”  
  
“Because I couldn’t stop him. Even if he survived – which is impossible, by the way - he still jumped. And I couldn’t prevent it.”  
  
“You knew Sherlock better than anyone, Doctor. Do you honestly believe he wouldn’t have a good reason for what he did?”   
  
John pushed up to his feet, nearly falling back down. His hand shook as he clicked the safety off of his gun and pointed it towards Mycroft. Greg saw immediately and started forward before being halted by an unknown hand holding him in place. Mycroft stayed where he was, letting John keep his advantage for now.  
  
“Why are you saying these things to me?! “ John shouted. “If there was something more to this, to _all of this_ , why wouldn’t you tell me? Are you so cold you would allow me to be in indescribable amounts of pain for eight years? No. No, Mycroft. You’re just trying to stop me with some shitty sense of false hope and it’s _disgusting_.”  
  
“You’re a military man. You know as well as I that sometimes you have to do despicable things in order to ensure the safety of others.”  
  
“ _STOP IT!_ ”  
  
Mycroft slowly began to stand up, hands held out in placation.  
  
“Put the gun down, John."  
  
“ _STAY BACK!_ ”  
  
John now had a thin layer of perspiration covering his face and neck; his breathing was shallow and slow. His skin had lost its colour; he’d never been so pale in his life. Everything was spinning and he couldn’t quite see straight anymore. With a frustrated growl, he turned the gun on himself, pressing it hard against his temple as his hand continued to tremble uncontrollably. Somehow the pressure dulled the pain that was inside of his head. The nausea he felt was overwhelming but he swallowed against it, barely feeling the teardrops falling from his eyes.  
  
“I just want to be with him again,” he whispered.  
  
His lightheadedness won and he collapsed hard to his knees, dissolving into a coughing fit, dropping his gun. He wasn’t getting enough air and the world around him was becoming blurry and for some reason, certain colours were fading to grey. It felt like his skin was crawling, every part of him itched. He tried so hard to raise his hands to scratch any part of exposed epidermis, but his forearms ached. They were cramping and tightening, and it felt like all of his muscles, tendons and veins were being constricted. His breath became shallower and he squeezed his eyes shut as he dropped onto his side from his knees.  
  
_Finally,_ he thought.  
  
_It won’t be long now, my sun, my love.  
  
__Soon.  
  
_ ***  
  
“Son of a _BITCH!_ ” Lestrade shouted.  
  
Sherlock ran to John’s fallen body, dropping down beside him and cradling his head in his lap. He held a palm on each side of John’s head and tried to wipe away the clamminess that had mixed with tears and saliva. He lowered his lips down and pressed a hard kiss into John’s disheveled hair.  
  
“What have you done, John? What did you _do_?” Sherlock mumbled against his skull.  
  
He looked up to see Mycroft calling for an ambulance, so he turned his attention to Greg.  
  
“Come over here, check his fucking pupils,” he ordered.  
  
Greg nodded and hustled over, kneeling beside John’s face. With a steady, careful hand, he pulled an eyelid up and cursed. He checked the other one and cursed again.   
  
“Fuck! No dilation at all.”  
  
Sherlock pressed his index and middle fingers to John’s pulse point under his jaw and blindly hoped to feel something – anything.  
  
“Very slow heartbeat. MYCROFT!” His brother turned. “Where the _bloody hell_ is the ambulance?”   
  
As if on cue, sirens started blaring, polluting the air. Sherlock had never been so happy to hear such an irritating sound. He rubbed small circles with his thumb against John’s temples, whispering soothing words. Hands started grabbing his arms, trying to pull him back. Away from John. He squirmed and struggled, finally deciding to bite one of the hands holding him.  
  
“Ow! Shit!”  
  
“Sir, you need to step back,” the other paramedic stated.  
  
“Over my dead body. Which, by the way, is extremely unlikely to occur.”  
  
“We can’t treat him unless you give us _space._ ”  
  
Sherlock growled at her, but allowed Lestrade to haul him off to the side. He watched intently, making certain no mistakes were made. He would raise hell if the paramedics did less than their best. It would be absolutely unacceptable if John died at their incompetent hands.  
  
“Do any of you know what he ingested?”   
  
“No, we do not,” Mycroft answered.  
  
“Look, we don’t care what he took; it will help us help him a lot quicker if we knew.”  
  
“We quite honestly have no idea. He drank from a flask – scotch. He must have mixed something with it. We… well; we were more concerned about the gun. Clearly, that was a back-up plan.”  
  
“Stupid. _STUPID!_ ” Sherlock seethed.  
  
“Alright. We’ve started a line for him; we’re going to give him a dose of activated charcoal before we use any other medication – it’s the safest route right now. Clearly, he didn’t inject himself with anything so with any luck, this will be a good start. We’re also going to give him some oxygen and watch his lung function. We’re going to draw some blood and have it ready by the time we reach the A&E, but depending what he took, it might not show up immediately.”  
  
The paramedic looked at Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg, making sure they understood what they were being told. Satisfied when there were no looks of confusion, she nodded and turned around.  
  
“Let’s load him up!”  
  
“I’m coming with you,” Sherlock hissed.  
  
“Are you family?”  
  
“Do you value your life?” Sherlock glanced at her nametag. “Avelana, is it?”  
  
Mycroft pushed him away and took over.  
  
“Ms. Lawrence, do not forget you work for _me_. Sherlock will accompany Captain John Watson and he will stay out of the way. Believe you me; you don’t want to experience one of his tantrums, which is _exactly_ what will happen if you deny him this right. Now _stop wasting time and GO.”  
  
_ She glared and scuttled away, helping her partner load John up. Sherlock trailed close behind. He sat out of the way of any machines and tubes, and allowed the paramedics to do their job. But he made sure he was close enough to grasp John’s limp, cold hand. He bent over to touch his forehead on John’s forearm.  
  
“I’m sorry. I am _so_ sorry,” he murmured.  
  
***  
  
_“Sherlock?"  
  
__John looked at his surroundings, feeling rather disoriented. Around him was a pale, dusty blue atmosphere. He couldn’t tell if it was sky, or perhaps heaven. It had a hazy kind of quality. It was almost like a cemetery fog. He took a tentative step forward and heard a swishing sound. Glancing down, he saw that he was barefooted, and ankle deep in the clearest water he’d ever seen in his existence. Whatever was beneath the water was solid.  
  
__The logistics of this place did not help his disorientation.  
  
__“Why am I alone?”  
  
__“You’re never alone, John. I’m with you wherever you go.”  
  
__“Sherlock?”  
  
__“Don’t be dull. Of course it’s me.”  
  
__“Why can’t I see you?”  
  
__John looked around again, trying to find the body attached to the voice that haunted his thoughts. There was nobody there, but the hairs on his arm were raised and he had gooseflesh. He rubbed his arms instinctively.  
  
__“This isn’t funny, Sherlock.”  
  
__“No, I imagine it isn’t.”  
  
__“I… I’m supposed to be with you now.”  
  
__“You could be.”  
  
__“How? Tell me how. I’ll do anything. Please.”  
  
__“I’m okay, John. I’ll be okay.”  
  
__“I don’t understand.”  
  
__“You should get that on a shirt.”  
  
__“Please come out. I won’t believe you otherwise. I still… Sherlock, I still see you covered in blood, broken, on the pavement. Please.”  
  
__John was greeted by silence. It was eerily quiet; the way the world is when it’s just waking up. He was getting angry now. What had he done in his life, or any of his past lives, to deserve this punishment? To walk through fire for someone and have them not be waiting on the other side?  
  
__“Why do you_ _never_ _take me with you? Why do you_ _ALWAYS_ _leave?”  
  
__“I wish I could take you with me, John. But I can’t. Not here. You need to find your own way back to me.”  
  
__“But I’m dead.”  
  
__“Are you?”  
  
__“…Aren’t I?”  
  
__“That’s for you to decide.”  
  
__John blinked rapidly, confused.  
  
__“All men’s souls are immortal, but the souls of the righteous are immortal and divine, John.”  
  
__John peered down and gasped. The solid ground beneath his feet, ethereal looking water surrounding him – it had all vanished and been replaced with cold cement. His heart started racing, beating erratically.  
  
__No. No, no, no.  
  
__This can’t be happening.  
  
__“How did I get here?” he whispered to himself.  
  
__He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wishing to be anywhere else. Anywhere else then where he currently was. John slowly opened his eyes and it felt like his heart was falling through his ribcage. Honestly, he would prefer the actuality of that. It would be better than this.  
  
__“If you’re listening, this is the cruelest thing you’ve ever done, Sherlock.”  
  
__The deep baritone voice didn’t respond.  
  
__Sighing, John shuffled towards the edge. He was scared to look down again for fear of what he might see. His toes hung slightly over, touching nothing but air. Realizing he has nothing left to lose, John finally allowed himself to look down. A lump rose in his throat at the sight.  
  
__It’s Sherlock, twisted in a broken mess, on the pavement below. Blood surrounds him, but that’s it. The crowd that had gathered when he jumped were mysteriously nonexistent. John furrowed his brow, waiting for help to arrive. As he was about to turn and run to the rooftop door, he saw movement. Sherlock was pushing himself up, apparently completely uninjured. John watched as he brushed the dust and dirt particles from his ridiculously expensive coat. He was beyond stunned to see Sherlock tilt his chin up, making eye contact. John nearly choked as his supposedly dead best friend grinned at him and winked.  
  
__He fucking winked, John thought.  
  
__Suddenly, he was struck by an epiphany. If epiphanies could take physical form, it would have knocked John on his arse.  
  
__“It’s just a magic trick,” he breathed out.  
  
__John closed his eyes, balled his fists, and exhaled deeply as he took a step off of the roof, plunging to the pavement beneath him. To Sherlock.  
  
_ ***  
  
Sherlock didn’t leave John’s side. The activated charcoal they had given John kept him mostly stable. His breathing was less shallow than it had been, and his skin colour was no longer deathly pale. It was in no way his normal tone but it was better and that’s all Sherlock could hope for. John was still, unfortunately, unconscious.  
  
Even with Mycroft’s insistence (and rather vicious threats), the doctor didn’t return with the results of John’s blood tests until over an hour after he had been admitted.  
  
“Mr. Holmes? We have the results of Dr. Watson’s tests. As we suspected, his blood alcohol levels were, frankly, dangerously high. We’re going to run some extra precautionary tests on his liver, as it’s quite clear he’s been drinking very heavily for a while now.”  
  
“Alcoholism runs in his family. His father died of cirrhosis and his sister has been in and out of rehab since she was seventeen. He’s always fought it but… it’s always been there. I should have known.”  
  
The doctor nodded solemnly.  
  
“Right now, that’s the least of our worries. The drug we found in his system was methadone. Luckily, it’s an overdose we can treat efficiently with naloxone. In theory, John should be fine after the medication makes its way through his system and I imagine this was a suicide attempt and that indicates this was very likely a first time use. The excessive amounts of alcohol could cause some extreme withdrawal, unfortunately."  
  
“What aren’t you telling me?”  
  
The doctor sighed, clearly collecting her thoughts.  
  
“I’m a busy woman, but I’m not a hermit. I know who you are, and I know who John is. He has spent nearly a decade abusing his body. Neglecting it of proper nourishment and replacing it with unhealthy, dangerous substances. Even you, a man with a top notch mind, cannot deny that patients with a will to live often have a better survival rate.”  
  
“And John doesn’t. You don’t think he’ll wake up.”  
  
“I… I believe that he will, Mr. Holmes,” the doctor stated. “But I need you to prepare for the possibility, albeit small, that he _won’t_.”  
  
“He has to,” Sherlock whispered, staring at his feet. “I need him to.”  
  
“Tell him that. He might hear you. I’m going to have a nurse administer his dosage and we’ll take some more blood a little bit later once the medication has had some time to do its job,” the doctor placed her hand firmly on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Hold his hand, Sherlock. Talk to him.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. He waited for the nurse to come and give John his opioid antagonist before settling in beside John and taking his hand. The small touch was not enough. He leaned forward and let his forehead come to a rest upon John’s thigh. Sherlock breathed him in and shuddered.  
  
Because John didn’t smell like _John_ anymore. He reeked of hospital disinfectant and stale alcohol. It was not what he remembered – coffee, vanilla biscuits and somehow, beyond all reason, the deserts of Afghanistan. It wasn’t _home_ anymore. The stabbing realization that John was not his home at this moment in time was enough to finally break Sherlock’s resolve, and he let the tears fall freely down his face, soaking the thin hospital blanket covering John.  
  
“Please,” he mumbled against the fabric. “Please. John, _please_. I promise I’ll be better if you just wake up. Well. You know me, I can’t actually promise that. But I promise I’ll try for you. _Please._ ”  
  
For the next two hours, Sherlock listed all of the things he’d try to stop doing if John would simply open his eyes or twitch his fingers. Things like no longer hiding animal corpses around the flat. Changing all of John’s passwords and then giving him a puzzle to figure it out. Refuting all of the scientific improbabilities when they watch Doctor Who.  
  
He promised he’d try to disinfect the kitchen more thoroughly – and the refrigerator. Definitely the refrigerator. And he promised to buy the milk every week, and make tea every morning.  
  
And most importantly - he promised to never leave John again.  
  
***  
  
_When John had finally stopped falling, he opened his eyes and was surprised to find himself in a museum like room. There were framed photos and documents and newspaper articles on the walls, and dozens of diaries that were covered with a fine layer of dust.  
  
__Eloquent, John remembered with a smile.  
  
__Curiously, he began wandering around the room. He caught sight of a familiar photograph and headed towards it. It was a large, printed version of his first blog entry – A Study in Pink. Beside it was a grainy picture of Sherlock wrapped in the god-awful orange shock blanket, an inappropriate smile on his face as they spoke by the police tape. John remembered that moment; it was the moment they both realized John would do anything for Sherlock, including shooting a piss poor cabbie that happened to be a serial killer with precision and absolutely no hesitation.  
  
__The next captured moment was when John left Soo Lin’s side when he heard gunfire and was concerned about Sherlock’s safety.  
  
__Every moment pictured were the moments John was there to save Sherlock. The last photo he came upon was a collage of CCTV captures of John being targeted by a sniper. And the sniper leaving after Sherlock jumped.  
  
__Tears stung his eyes and he stumbled backwards, collapsing in the centre of the room. His head hung heavily, straining the muscles in his neck and upper back.  
  
__“John.”  
  
__John’s head whipped up and he looked around; he’d know that voice anywhere. That was Sherlock’s voice and it was fucking haunting him.  
  
__“Tell me! Tell me how to get to you,” John begged.  
  
__“It was just a magic trick, John.”  
  
__“That doesn’t help!”  
  
__“Doesn’t it? I can prove it.”  
  
__“Prove what, Sherlock? What magic trick?”  
  
__“Nobody could be that clever,” the voice taunted.  
  
__“You could.”  
  
__“Exactly. And what might we deduce about that?”  
  
__***  
  
_ Sherlock was in the middle of telling a still-comatose John about the work he did when he was away. The theory was that if for whatever reason John really could hear Sherlock, maybe he could eliminate some of the awkward _‘where the hell have you been?’_ conversation. Maybe he’d retain some of the anecdotes Sherlock was telling him.  
  
Underneath it all, though, Sherlock was mostly hopeful that John would actually be so angry that he woke up to scold Sherlock. He’d give every organ in his body to have that happen.  
  
He began telling John all about Germany and Austria, about the arms dealer he tracked for Mycroft singlehandedly. If anything was going to piss John off, it was this story. Because this was the case Mycroft tried to recruit John for. Sure, John didn’t _technically_ know Sherlock was a part of it, but perhaps he would put it together subconsciously.  
  
Sherlock gently squeezed John’s hand and continued.  
  
“It was splendid, John. You would love Berchtesgaden. Charming little town, surrounded by nature,” he scoffed. “Mountains, and forests, and lakes.”  
  
He froze as he felt John’s fingers twitch. At least, he _thought_ they twitched. He waited for something else to happen and when nothing did, he talked some more.  
  
“I enjoyed visiting the _Kehlsteinhaus_. Granted, I caused a bit of a … commotion … seeing as how I used Mycroft’s security clearance to shut down tours for a day. I’d like to take you there one day. But that requires you to bloody wake up, John.”  
  
John’s fingers twitched harder, and this time Sherlock was certain. He propelled himself up, smashing the ‘ _call nurse’_ button on the wall.  
  
“Yes?” A voice came through the intercom.  
  
“Get Dr. Rivers in here. _Immediately._ ”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
While Sherlock waited for the doctor to arrive, he stood beside John’s bed, eagerly awaiting more movement. He could see John’s forearm muscles tightening as his hand was able to move more. A massive (and frankly, terrifying) grin appeared on Sherlock’s face as he saw John’s eyelids flutter.  
  
“What is it, Sherlock?”  
  
“His fingers started twitching. Not just once, I made sure.”  
  
“Sherlock,” Dr. Rivers began, flashing a sympathetic smile. “You know as well as I do that it happens in comatose patients. I know that it can be exciting but it doesn’t always mean anything.”  
  
“His eyelids are moving too.”  
  
Dr. Rivers gestured towards the corner of the room and beckoned Sherlock to follow her.  
  
“Listen, Sherlock, you’ve been at his bedside every second since he was admitted. I haven’t seen you sleep at all; the nurses haven’t either. It’s been six days. The only reason you even eat is because your brother sends food in.”  
  
“He doesn’t need me to sleep right now. He needs me to talk to him and to remind him that I’m there.”  
  
“No. He needs you to be healthy when he wakes up.”  
  
Sherlock glared at her and went to return to his rightful place beside John.  A small gasp that turned into a choked sob echoed throughout the room.  
  
“Sh-Sher…”  
  
Sherlock rushed over to John, his hands cupping John’s face lovingly, almost in disbelief.  
  
“ _John,_ ” Sherlock whispered brokenly. “Oh God, John, I’m here, I’m here, okay? I’m sorry. _I am so sorry._ ”  
  
“Out of the way, Mr. Holmes. Let us evaluate his status,” Dr. Rivers commanded.  
  
Reluctantly, Sherlock backed away but stayed in John’s line of sight. He smiled shyly, overcome with happiness and relief but what really knocked him off his feet was when instead of returning a smile, John rolled his eyes and then flicked them towards the doctors.  
  
It was so perfectly _John._

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering about[ Kua Fu](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kua_Fu), I have a bit of a thing for mythology and I liked the correlation. It's a very similar story to Icarus except this is more the Chinese equivalent. 
> 
> [Kehlsteinhaus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kehlsteinhaus) was constructed as a birthday present for Hitler that would serve as a retreat. It sits atop of the Kehlstein Mountain and it is open to the public to this day. I was also thinking of possibly writing a little ficlet of when Sherlock takes John up there..:)


End file.
